So You’re Kind of Like Q?
by force42
Summary: Following the events of 'The Dark Knight,' Bruce needs a new car. But nothing is ever that simple.
1. An Old Friend

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 1: An Old Friend**

"Mr. Wayne, as I understand from Mr. Fox, you need a new vehicle."

"Yes," replied Bruce Wayne, somewhat surprised to see a woman in her early thirties discussing some sort of drawing with Wayne Enterprises CEO Lucius Fox in Bruce's office.

"Bruce, this is Robin Richards." Lucius introduced the woman. "She used to work here, down in Applied Sciences."

"Mr. Wayne," Robin shook Bruce's hand firmly.

"Ms. Richards," he replied, "or do you prefer Robin?" Bruce said, turning on his trademark playboy charm.

"It's Ms. Richards," she replied in a cool, professional tone.

"Ms. Richards," Bruce said with mock contrition, "I'm sorry to inform you that my new Lamborghini will be arriving in three days."

"I know, and it will be ready for you to use and abuse by the end of the month."

"Excuse me?"

Lucius cut in, "Bruce, I thought you got my message. Ms. Richards is going to be adding some certain extra features to your new car…make it a bit more_ versatile_, so to speak."

"Oh, I see. Does this mean she's adding a back seat?" Bruce winked at Robin. He thought he was overdoing the airheaded playboy persona a bit, but this one seemed a little too smart for his usual act.

"More like a roll cage, full bulletproofing, tire spikes, tear gas, smoke bombs, and whatever else you may like. Within reason, of course," Robin replied, annoyed at, but not surprised by, the billionaire's crude comment.

"Of course," Bruce replied, a bite of sarcasm punching through his charisma.

Lucius pulled Bruce aside, "If you plan on making a habit of pulling stunts like the one that wrecked your first Lamborghini, I suggest you go along with this. That car wasn't designed to take a hit like the Tumbler. That's why Ms. Richards is here. And your airhead act is just getting in the way, _so drop it_."

Turning back to the woman who had resumed her study of the drawings on his desk, Bruce asked, "Ms. Richards, what is it, exactly, that you do?"

"I modify stock vehicles to withstand attack and allow the occupants to safely escape the scene. To even the most astute observer, these modifications are undetectable. My clients include government officials, CEOs, celebrities, and the occasional reckless billionaire playboy." She almost sounded amused.

"Such as…?" Bruce prompted.

"I don't reveal the identities of my clients." Robin replied in her clipped tone. "Surely in your position you can understand the need for confidentiality in such matters. I can't have the security of my clients compromised for bragging rights. You will find an entire page devoted to confidentiality in your contract. It is both for your safety and mine."

"I understand completely, Ms. Richards," Bruce replied.

"And which projects did you work on when you were here?" Bruce was almost hesitant to ask.

"A number of projects," Robin started vaguely, and, after a look from Lucius confirmed she could speak freely, she continued, "including the Tumbler, the AIRTAN System, and the Nomex survival suit."

"AIRTAN?"

"Artificially Intelligent Real-Time Automated Navigation System; essentially a driverless vehicle," Robin clarified.

"Really?" Bruce was not sure whether to be worried or relieved by her candor.

Turning back to the subject at hand, Robin said, "Mr. Wayne, as I understand from Mr. Fox, you studied engineering as well as business at Princeton. Perhaps you would like to have a closer look at my plans for your vehicle?"

"Show me what you've got," replied Bruce, leaning over to look at the sketches spread across his desk. "So you're kind of like Q?"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that?" Robin sighed.

"You kids have fun," Lucius Fox said, turning for the door, "I'd love to stay, but I have my own work to do."


	2. Working Out the Details

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 2: Working Out the Details**

"You said you worked here before, down in Applied Sciences. Tell me about it." Bruce took off the virtual reality goggles Robin had him wearing to 'try out' various control layouts. "And I think I liked set B the best."

"What do you want to know?" Robin asked. "And do you prefer red, blue, or green for the heads-up display?"

"Everything," Bruce replied. "Can you show me the colors in the simulator?"

"Sure," Robin queued the next set of simulations and began, "I was hired by Wayne Enterprises straight out of college. Applied Sciences wasn't always in the sub-basement. It used to be on floors thirty-nine through forty-five. I was on floor forty-two…thought it was perfect, geek that I was, well, am…" Robin chuckled. "I started out essentially as a code monkey. My first assignment was making widgets for a cell phone…calendar, games, voice-to-text memos…standard issue stuff today…this was twelve years ago. After that was AIRTAN; everyone thought that driverless cars were going to be the 'next big thing.'"

"Do you have more of an orange?" Bruce asked, finished with the simulation.

"Hang on a sec," Robin punched something into the simulator, "Try that."

"That's better. So what happened?"

"All the tests were promising, but it never made it into production. We eventually adapted the technology for a robotic seeing-eye dog. Do you prefer tire spikes or bio-degradable oil slicks?"

"Tire spikes. Didn't the AIRTAN System go into the Tumbler?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Um," Bruce faltered, "Lucius let me test-drive the Tumbler once."

"Did you like it?"

"It was great. So when did the heavy arms development and manufacturing begin?"

"It wasn't until about two years after you disappeared that Applied Sciences turned into 'government contracts central.' Do you think you'll need self-re-inflating tires?"

"You can do that?" Bruce asked.

"Short of making your Lamborghini fly, I can do anything, Mr. Wayne." Robin smiled.

"In that case, sure. 'Government contracts central?'"

"Within a year, most of the non-defense-related projects had been shelved. I was working on miniaturizing a dialysis machine at the time. The prototype is still down there somewhere; it never got to the testing phase. There were quite a few older engineers who remembered your father still working in Applied Sciences who didn't like the direction the department was heading. A few of them protested the changes and were either reassigned to different departments or were fired. After that, it seemed every week another desk was empty. That's when Mr. Earle moved Applied Sciences to the sub-basement. Mr. Fox arrived soon after."

"Why didn't you leave?" Bruce asked.

"I was certainly thinking about it. I'd been reassigned to the Nomex Survival Suit project, which, I rationalized, was meant to save lives, not take them, so I stayed. The Tumbler was my last project. I worked on the suspension system and the steering system. I also tweaked AIRTAN to make it a more comprehensive AI system for the vehicle. Then Mr. Earle tried to transfer me to a new department he created, 'Defense Technologies' he called it. I was being promoted to team lead to develop a supersonic cruise missile."

"He _tried_ to transfer you?"

"Naturally, I protested the move. I told him I'd take any project that kept me in Applied Sciences, even though it was in the sub-basement, rather than a corner office job building bombs. He fired me. What do you think are your chances of landing your car in the bay?"

"What difference does that make?"

"Limited submersible capabilities versus an emergency beacon and SCUBA tanks."

"A Lamborghini submarine?"

"Not exactly," Robin replied, "it'll get you back on dry land, but I wouldn't recommend intentionally driving off a pier."

"But if I did, it would work?"

"Of course."

"How do you know?"

"I drove a car off a pier. And successfully got it back onto dry land, then drove it off the pier again a few more times."

"How did you get into this business anyway?"

"About a week after I was fired, Mr. Fox called me. Even the nice areas of Gotham were getting rougher, and he wanted to have his wife's car bulletproofed as a birthday gift. He knew about what I'd been doing with my car, and I hadn't found a new job yet, so I agreed to do it. Things kind of took off from there." Robin had begun to pack away the virtual reality simulator.

"And what had you been doing with your car?" Bruce asked, suspecting it was the black thing he had seen in one of the VIP guest parking spaces in the Wayne Enterprises parking garage on his way into the building.

"It's my test platform. I try out new materials and devices on my car before installing them for clients. I've been working on it since college. I never expected it to be the launch-pad of a successful business venture. Did Alfred ever mention that you Rolls-Royce is completely bulletproof, among other things?"

"No, he didn't. I was wondering about some of the buttons I found under the armrest. He probably didn't want to give me any ideas…" Bruce chuckled.

"Well, in that case, I hope I didn't spoil it for him. That will be all for today, Mr. Wayne. Enjoy the rest of your evening." Robin picked up her bag and headed for the door.

"Ms. Richards," Bruce called after her. Robin turned back towards him. "I'm hosting a birthday party for myself at the newly rebuilt Wayne Manor tomorrow night. Would you like to attend?"

"Certainly," replied Robin. "Black tie or white?"


	3. A Splendid Party

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and I most certainly don't own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 3: A Splendid Party**

Alfred straightened Bruce's bow tie, "I hope there won't be a repeat of the drunken speech you gave last year, Master Wayne."

"Don't worry Alfred," Bruce replied assuredly, "I've hired an excellent team of security guards. No one is spoiling the party this year."

"You _are_ staying for the entire party, are you not, Master Wayne?"

"I think Gotham will survive one night without Batman."

"Well then," said Alfred, gesturing towards the door, "your guests are waiting for you."

Bruce walked down the hall and entered the ballroom to a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday." He smiled and took a flute of champagne from a passing tray. Bruce raised his glass, "The last time I was, ahem, here, talking to all of you, my lovely guests, I kicked you all out and proceeded to burn my house to the ground. This year, the only flames you will be seeing will be the candles on my cake."

The crowd laughed. The small orchestra resumed playing and Bruce began working his way through the crowded ballroom towards the buffet table, stopping and greeting guests every step of the way.

In the far corner of the room, Robin stood as alone as she could be in the crowded room, desperately hoping to avoid being sucked into one of the mind-numbingly dull conversations taking place around her. She looked across the room to spot any familiar faces. The only ones she saw were those of Mr. Fox, Bruce, and Alfred.

"Why Ms. Richards, it is nice to see you again. Master Wayne said that you would be here." Unlike his pleasantries exchanged with some of the other guests, Alfred seemed genuinely happy to see Robin. "You look lovely."

"Thank you Alfred, it is nice to see you again too. How's the Rolls?"

"Five years and not even a flat tire. And it _is_ reassuring to know that my golf clubs will be safe should I ever encounter gunfire on my way to the course." Alfred smiled.

"Good to hear. Has Mr. Wayne inquired about the buttons in the armrest yet?" Robin asked, taking a glass of wine from a passing tray.

"Not yet. I'm assuming that that waiver I signed was put to good use?"

"Yes, and he was quite surprised."

"You do take the confidentiality of your clients quite seriously, don't you?"

"In my business, it can be the difference between life and death."

"Is it always business with you?" Bruce cut in while trying to gently shoo off a young female guest in a revealing red dress who was trying to drape herself, it seemed, over the billionaire.

"Actually," Robin replied, trying to smother a laugh at the desperate antics of the girl in red, and seeing that Alfred was trying to do the same, "I was thinking of getting out of the business and going back into research full time. I'm just a little too hot on the international independent security contracting scene at the moment," Robin pulled down the sleeve of one of her elbow-length green gloves to show the men the scar from a recently healed bullet wound to illustrate her point.

Both men winced.

"If you're looking for a job," Bruce seized the opportunity, "I've been working on restarting the Applied Sciences department and downsizing Defense Technologies, transferring people back. Since Mr. Fox has been promoted, I'll need a new department head. Would you be interested?"

"I'll have to think about it," Robin said as Bruce was whisked away by an older woman whose husband, she said, was just dying to talk to the young billionaire.

"You won't get a better offer than that," Alfred said before turning to direct some latecomers towards the coat check.

Robin wandered over to the buffet table, took a plate, and proceeded to try to determine which dishes were vegetarian.

Bruce meanwhile was yet again trying to get away from an overly amorous and very drunk female guest, this one a woman in her early sixties wearing a leopard print dress that was far too tight for her figure. As he moved through the crowd, he overheard a group of women debating the possible identities of Batman and wondering if he was as 'hunky' out of his suit as he was in it. Bruce sighed; this was going to be a long night.

Finally, Bruce spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "You barely know him," Bruce reminded himself as he approached Commissioner Gordon. "Commissioner! It's good to see you," Bruce said, relishing the opportunity to speak with his ally as Bruce Wayne rather than as Batman.

"Mr. Wayne, always a pleasure. You really know how to throw a party. Nice speech, by the way," Gordon said.

"How are the new computers working out?" Bruce asked, referring to the new computer system Wayne Enterprises recently donated to the Gotham Police Department.

"They're wonderful," Gordon replied. "Now if only we could get a cybercrime division more interested in catching crooks than playing solitaire."

"You'll get there," Bruce tried to sound encouraging, but he knew as well as Gordon did that they were fighting an uphill battle.

Robin stood alone on the balcony, watching the partygoers chatter and move about inside the brightly lit hall. She was never much of a party girl herself, feeling claustrophobic in large crowds among other things, but had accepted such events as part of her job. After spending ten minutes debating the merits of padded insoles with a woman who must have been old enough to be her grandmother, she needed some fresh air.

Bruce caught Robin's eye as he worked his way through the crowd towards the balcony, looking like he needed some fresh air himself, and she moved to meet him in the doorway.

"Mr. Wayne," Robin said, side-stepping a passing waiter, "it just occurred to me that…"

The crack of a pistol shot rang throughout the hall.

Robin looked at Bruce, shocked, and crumpled into his arms, both of them falling to the ground.

Several women screamed as a panicked rush for the exits began.

Commissioner Gordon rushed towards the prone figures while several security guards pursued the escaping gunman.

"Call an ambulance!" Gordon yelled to no one in particular.


	4. A Change of Plans

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and I most certainly don't own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 4: A Change of Plans**

"So much for security," Bruce sighed, looking over to Robin, sitting next to him in Commissioner Gordon's office.

"Next time, I'd suggest you screen your catering staff a bit more thoroughly, Mr. Wayne," Commissioner Gordon closed the door as he entered his office. "As far as the press is concerned, Ms. Richards is dead, and you are in critical but stable condition at the Thomas Wayne Memorial Hospital."

"How long will I stay dead?" Robin asked.

"A week, maybe two, at least until Mr. Wayne is 'released' from the hospital," Gordon replied. "If you plan to stay in Gotham, we'll have to bring you back eventually. People do tend to notice those sorts of things. Why do you ask?"

"Dead people usually get scratched off international hit lists."

"I see," Gordon said, deciding to leave further questions in that vein until later. "Do you have a safe place where you could spend the next two weeks?"

"At the moment, I'm staying at the Palazzo Hotel. I was in the process of finding an apartment, and I had a workspace arranged, but I don't think those plans will be compatible with this disappearing act," Robin sighed. "For my work, I need an open area at least seven feet eight inches wide, thirty-nine feet five inches long, and seven feet ten inches tall, though for this project, that may be cutting things a bit tight," Robin grimaced, hoping she wouldn't have to go that route again. "Beyond that, I'm quite flexible in terms of accommodations."

"She could stay at Wayne Manor," Bruce suggested. "There's plenty of room, and except for occasional press appearances at the hospital, I'm going to have to disappear for those two weeks too. You know what they say, misery loves company," Bruce smiled.

"Ms. Richards, it's your call," Gordon said, realizing that the solution Bruce presented was probably the best (and cheapest for the Gotham Police Department) that they were going to get.

"It's fine with me," Robin replied.

"Perfect," Bruce said pulling his phone from his pocket, "I'll call Alfred and have him prepare a guest room."

"Mr. Wayne, Ms. Richards," Commissioner Gordon said, as Bruce ended his phone conversation, "We will have to take formal statements from both of you. Ms. Richards first," Gordon gestured towards a door taking the back way to the interrogation rooms, grateful that his new office was set off the main hallway where several dozen reporters were crowded, "Right this way."

Robin followed Commissioner Gordon into the white tiled room, squinting against the harsh light.

"Please, take a seat." Commissioner Gordon sat down across the steel table from her and folded his hands. He began, "What happened?"

"Where do you want me to begin?"

"At the first incident of relevance, please."

"Okay…I was talking to an older woman, I think her name was Mrs. Gallagher, when one of the wait staff approached us with a tray of prosciutto and melon. He was absolutely charming, or at least Mrs. Gallagher thought so. He was too charming for me," Robin shook her head, "I just had this sick feeling that there was something horribly wrong with his presence at the party. As he turned to offer the tray to another guest, his vest was pulled tight against his torso, but the lines were wrong; it looked very much like he had a holstered gun beneath his vest. At that point, Mrs. Gallagher commented on my prolonged staring at the waiter, and I turned my attention back to her just long enough to politely excuse myself. By then, the waiter had disappeared into the crowd, so I decided to chalk this one up to my paranoia and the wine, and stepped outside for some fresh air."

"How much wine had you consumed?" Gordon asked.

"About half a glass. I don't drink much or often; it just gives me something to hold at parties. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Please continue.

"I stepped outside for some fresh air. I dumped the remainder of my wine off the balcony, and set the glass on the railing. I turned back to the party to watch. Then I saw the waiter again. He was offering a tray of something to a group of women who seemed to be making an awful lot of effort to flirt with him, but he wasn't paying attention to them. He was watching Mr. Wayne. Mr. Wayne was heading towards the balcony, so I moved to intercept him and warn him about the suspicious waiter."

"Why didn't you alert one of the security guards?" Gordon asked.

"Mr. Wayne was closer. I reached him at just the same time as the waiter, cutting in front of the waiter to get to Mr. Wayne. The waiter pressed a gun into my back and made a sort of jerking motion to the side with it. I think he wanted me to step aside. I stayed where I was and he fired the gun. He assumed correctly that at that range, the bullet would have gone straight through me and hit Mr. Wayne. I don't think he expected me to be wearing next-generation body armor under my dress," Robin smiled.

"Tell me about this armor you're wearing."

"I call it SecondSkin; I invented it. I wanted to call it DragonSkin, but the name was already taken," Robin laughed. "Essentially, it's a non-newtonian fluid suspended in a gelatinous matrix. In its rest state, it is flexible and slightly stretchy. Apply a concentrated force to it, and it stiffens, absorbing most of the kinetic energy of the blow," Robin explained in the simplest and vaguest terms possible.

"And why were you wearing it to a party with Gotham's elite? I know Mr. Wayne's parties have a habit of being interrupted by some unsavory characters, but military-grade body armor is taking things to a bit of an extreme, don't you think?"

"Commissioner Gordon, I have hits out on me in five countries. I get shot at with alarming regularity; it's something of an occupational hazard. Call me paranoid, but I don't take any chances."

"We had the forensics team comb the entire area for a bullet; we couldn't find it."

"Did you check the gun?" Robin asked.

"No, I don't know what you mean." Gordon replied, slightly confused.

"When I was testing the material, I did several gunshot tests with the end of the gun pressed into the material strapped to a crash-test dummy. Every single time, the bullet ended up lodged in the barrel; there was nowhere else for it to go," Robin explained.

There was a knock on the interrogation room door. Commissioner Gordon answered the door and spoke quietly with a younger cop for a few minutes. Commissioner Gordon turned to look at Robin, sighed, turned back to the young cop, nodded and left the interrogation room, the younger cop replacing him. The young cop, whose badge said 'Michaels,' casually tossed a handful of photos towards Robin.

Robin picked up the pictures, and, leafing through them, asked, "What are these?"

"Surely even a newcomer such as yourself has heard of the Bat Man," Michaels replied.

"He's in all the papers, how could I not?"

"Tell me about him."

"I don't understand," Robin replied, though she had a fairly good idea of what he wanted.

"You were wearing some pretty fancy body armor at that party. I want to know about Batman's armor."

Studying the pictures more closely, Robin began, "I've seen suits like this before, at DARPA conferences. A couple companies have made similar ones over the years, and I've heard of some commando units using them, but as far as I know, there isn't anything like this in standard production. It is definitely military grade; not like mine at all, though. Layered panels with reinforced joints, probably Kevlar among other things. Custom helmet. Possibly fiberglass or graphite."

"And what about his vehicle?" Michaels asked, pushing a grainy photo of the Tumbler towards her.

Robin laughed, "This thing is fantastic. Actually, I'd love to take it out for a spin, or at least see the inside of it. Looks like more military hardware, some sort of advanced tank."

"Really? You'd actually like to drive that monstrosity?" Michaels was surprised at her response to his question.

"Absolutely!" Robins replied, then felt a need to explain, "I'm an engineer, Officer Michaels, this is kind of my thing."

Changing the subject slightly, Michaels asked, "How does he fly?"

"Most likely a collapsible hang glider of some sort. But that's a bit beyond my areas of expertise."

"Can you surmise anything from this?" Michaels asked, making a sort of swirling motion with his hand over the photos.

Robin faltered, "I'm not a psychologist, but I can give you an educated guess."

"Go ahead, Ms. Richards," Michaels encouraged.

"You're looking for someone who is ex-military. High ranking and/or well connected if he can get his hands on this kind of equipment without anyone noticing. Based on what I've heard about his fighting skills, has to be special ops, Army Ranger or Navy SEAL, maybe. Grew up in Gotham, left to join the military, was highly decorated and respected, honorably discharged…no…no, _was_ respected and highly decorated, but was dishonorably discharged. He comes back to Gotham in disgrace, sees that it is in even worse shape than when he left, and decided to try to redeem himself by saving his city."

"Why bats?"

"I don't know. Like I said, Officer Michaels, I'm not a psychologist."

"Thank you Ms. Richards. You have been a great help. You are free to go." Michaels stood up, offering Robin his hand.

"Thank you...you're welcome…" Robin shook her head, fatigue finally setting in, and headed for the door.


	5. More Questions than Answers

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, and I most certainly don't own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 5: More Questions Than Answers**

Commissioner Gordon sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. He didn't see the point of questioning Ms. Richards about the Bat Man; she had only arrived in Gotham three days earlier, and despite her obvious technical expertise in defense technologies, what could she possibly know that they didn't already? Entering the observation room above the interrogation room, Gordon was surprised to see Bruce Wayne watching the proceedings intently. "Mr. Wayne, what are you doing here?"

Bruce looked over at Gordon with the sheepish grin of a schoolboy caught peeping in the girls' locker room. "I've never seen an interrogation; I was curious," he explained.

"This really isn't an interrogation, Mr. Wayne; it's just a routine questioning. If you want to see a real interrogation, you and Ms. Richards are more than welcome to observe as we question your would-be assassin." Gordon knew that Mr. Wayne really should not have been allowed into the observation room, and he would have to have a talk with whomever Bruce had charmed or bribed into letting him in, but now that he was here, he might as well stay.

Bruce leaned against the window of the observation room, a mirror it would appear to anyone inside the sterile white room, and listened to the crackling audio relayed over an aging hidden microphone system. The young officer, Bruce was surprised to hear, was asking Robin about the Bat Man.

Gordon stood beside Bruce, arms crossed, "I don't approve of this line of questioning, but the task force set up to catch Batman insisted on it." Bruce was not sure whether Gordon was directing the comment at him, or trying to justify the extra questioning to himself. "Besides, what could she possibly know?"

"Too much," Bruce said to himself as he watched the young cop hand Robin a grainy photo of the Tumbler. He couldn't help cracking a smile when she expertly dodged the question.

As the young cop led Robin out of the interrogation room, Gordon turned to Bruce and gestured towards the door, "Your turn."

Bruce followed Gordon out of the observation room, passing Robin and Officer Michaels in the hallway. Gordon waved Bruce into the interrogation room as he stopped to speak to the young cop.

Bruce settled into the stiff metal chair and looked around the small room. He noticed that they had fixed the broken glass since Batman's rough encounter with the Joker, but some of the scuff marks on the floor from the struggle remained as a reminder of that fateful night. Bruce turned as Commissioner Gordon closed the door and approached the heavy steel table. He absently ran his hand along a thin, jagged scratch marring the otherwise smooth finish of the slab of metal, realizing that it had been left by one of Batman's gauntlets when he slammed the Joker's head into that same table. If Gordon noticed this, he did not acknowledge it.

"This should not take long, Mr. Wayne, and then you and Ms. Richards will be free to go," Commissioner Gordon began, hoping to put the billionaire at ease in these unfamiliar surroundings.

Bruce leaned back in his chair and smiled at the Commissioner, "Then let's begin."

"Just tell me what happened," Gordon said gently. Bruce couldn't help but be reminded of the young cop who wrapped his father's coat around him and told him that everything was going to be okay so many years ago.

"It all happened so fast," Bruce sighed. "I needed a bit of fresh air, and was heading for the balcony. It was cold, so no one was out there, except for Ms. Richards. She was watching something, or someone, I guess, very intently. Then she looked straight at me, looked away, then back at me. From the look on her face when she looked away, I realized something was wrong and tried to get to her faster. I thought I was going to run into that waiter when Ms. Richards cut him off. She said something…I don't remember what…and then I heard the shot and she fell into me…practically tackled me really. I never even saw the gun. I was about to get up when Ms. Richards quietly told me to play dead. By then, you'd gotten to us, and you know the rest."

"Can you think of anyone who would want you dead?" Gordon asked.

Bruce thought for a minute. From his time away, Bruce could think of several groups that would want him dead, but none except the League of Shadows knew his true identity, or so he hoped. Still, he couldn't exactly mention any of them to Commissioner Gordon. "No one," he finally replied.

"Upset ex-employees? Spurned ex-lovers? Corporate competitors?" Gordon prompted, hoping to jog Bruce's memory.

"I don't think Mr. Earle is the murdering type, especially seeing that it's been nearly a year since I fired him. The last I heard, he was enjoying retirement," Bruce said, thinking of the former CEO of Wayne Enterprises. "And I don't think Mr. Lau's company can hold anything against me personally for the partnership not working out," Bruce laughed, "I slept through most of the meetings."

Gordon forced himself to laugh, unsure as to whether or not Bruce was joking. "If you think of anything later, Mr. Wayne, perhaps after you have had a good night's sleep, please let us know." Gordon stood to escort Bruce out. "There's a car waiting to take both you and Ms. Richards back to Wayne Manor whenever you're ready."

"Actually, Commissioner, you mentioned that I could observe the interrogation of my would-be assassin. If someone is, indeed, trying to kill me, I would like to know as much about the threat as possible."

"Right," Gordon said, remembering the offer he made earlier. "You know the way," Gordon pointed towards the observation room door, then turned to accompany another cop to the lockup to fetch their prisoner.


	6. Stonewalling

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman and I most certainly don't own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 6: Stonewalling**

Bruce entered the observation room and found Robin sitting in a corner intently studying the screen of a device which looked like it had been cobbled together from a graphing calculator, a blackberry, and a radio. Looking up, she said, "I have a sleek and shiny one, but it's currently in my hotel room in pieces. Hardware problem. Whoever's after you is probably either local, keeping it in-house, or both; you're too famous for a hit order to go unmentioned."

"That's very interesting; care to name your sources?" Bruce asked.

"The internet is a wonderful tool. There are message boards for every interest, including professional hit men. Don't worry, I'm bouncing my signal off five randomly chosen satellites that switch every five minutes, and then through three proxies; a feed like that is a pain to track." Robin replied, clearly pleased with her findings. "I'm off the hook, though, for now at least." Robin glanced over at the observation room window, "Looks like your shooter is here."

"Care to join me?" Bruce extended his hand.

"I'm fine right here, but thank you," Robin turned back to her gadget.

Bruce moved closer to the window and looked down at the man sitting silently across from Commissioner Gordon. He was still wearing the waiter's uniform.

"What is your name?" Commissioner Gordon opened the interrogation with what he hoped would be an easy question.

He was met with a stony silence.

Changing tactics, Gordon continued, "The girl you shot, do you know who she was?"

"No," the man said flatly.

"She's dead. Which means you're looking at life in prison with no chance of parole."

"It was her own fault. I gave her a chance to move, but she didn't."

"Maybe you didn't give her enough of a chance. You could have forced her out of the way."

The man shrugged non-committally. "Collateral damage. She shouldn't have interfered."

"She had no idea you had a gun! I don't think she even realized she'd been shot and was dying when I got to her!" It was the man's utter indifference that infuriated the Commissioner.

Gordon continued more calmly, "You must have known that you'd get caught. How'd you plan on getting out? Or did you not care? To have the audacity to pull a stunt like that, what, was it something personal?"

The man smirked, shrugged, and leaned back in his chair.

From the back of the observation room, a voice broke the silence, "Can you talk to Commissioner Gordon?"

Bruce and the cop sitting next to him turned to look at Robin. "Why do you ask?" the cop said.

"His name is Randolph Kramer," she replied, hoping they wouldn't ask her where, or more importantly, _how_, she obtained the information.

The cop turned to a microphone on the control desk to relay the information to Gordon.

Robin felt Bruce's presence just behind her. He was looking over her shoulder at the small display screen of her mobile computer interface. "Tsk, tsk," he whispered to her, "hacking inside police headquarters?"

"Like you've never done anything illegal," she muttered. "How do you think I've managed to stay alive for the past five years? Digging into your enemies' business helps when you're trying to stay one step ahead of your would-be assassins."

"What else do you have?"

"Just one alias, Malcom Daily, which he used at the catering company. I've got a search program running on a hard-wired machine, but it will take hours before it comes up with anything useful; days to get something approaching a complete profile."

In the interrogation room, Commissioner Gordon was having a staring match with the man in the waiter's uniform.

"Randolph Kramer." Gordon repeated the name fed to his earpiece.

"You know my name. Your detectives are better than I thought." Kramer said coolly. He almost sounded disappointed. "I want a lawyer."


	7. Home Again, Home Again

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 7: Home Again, Home Again**

Commissioner Gordon let the interrogation room door swing shut behind him. He let out an exasperated sigh. "That was a waste of time," he said to himself. But they had his name; it was a start.

There was no question as to his guilt; even if there hadn't been a roomful of witnesses, he had admitted to shooting Robin; that was enough to get a conviction. The problem lay in the fact that he was just an assassin, the fall guy, so to speak. The attempts on Bruce's life would not stop until they caught the person, or people, who ordered the hit.

Commissioner Gordon entered the observation room. "We won't be getting anything else out of him tonight," he said, disappointed.

"Too bad we can't have Batman do interrogations anymore," the other cop said, "he got the Joker to talk; this guy would be a piece of cake for him to break."

"Like it did much good," Bruce thought, trying not to cringe at the memory.

Gordon gave the other cop a 'not in front of our guests' look and continued, "You may as well go home. I'll make sure to notify you of any new information as it becomes available."

"Good job ID-ing the guy, by the way, Robinson," Gordon turned to the other cop.

"It wasn't me," Robinson replied, "she did it," the cop pointed at Robin. "She got it off some sort of handheld thing-a-majig, I don't know how."

Commissioner Gordon turned to Robin, "Aspiring detective, are you, Ms. Richards?"

"Only by necessity," Robin replied with a guilty smile, "I do what I must; it's how I'm still alive."

"I don't want to know, do I?" Gordon asked knowingly. From his dealings with Batman, Gordon had learned that sometimes it's better not to know, and, since she had already proven her worth, he would give Robin a similar amount of leeway.

Robin shook her head and mouthed 'no.'

"There is a car waiting to take both of you back to Wayne Manor, this way please," Gordon ushered Bruce and Robin towards the door. Instead of taking the hallway to the back staircase, Gordon led them back to his office. "Before you go, there are some small details that need to be worked out." Gordon sat on the edge of his desk as Bruce and Robin found seats. "First, Mr. Wayne, a press conference has already been scheduled for you tomorrow afternoon in your hospital room. All you really need to do is be there, looking like an invalid."

"Will our charming Mr. Wayne be on morphine?" Bruce asked.

"Probably," Gordon replied.

"That should be fun." Bruce almost sounded excited by the prospect of trying out this new act. "And should I flirt with the nurses?"

"Do whatever you like, just try not to overdo it," Gordon chuckled at the thought. "We have a body double at the hospital already; hopefully whoever seems to have it in for you will take the bait." Gordon continued, "In the meantime, try to keep a low profile; no meetings, girlfriends, vacations, unnecessary phonecalls, hazardous driving, or any other stunt that could land you in the hospital for real."

"Yes, mom." Bruce intoned.

"Now, Ms. Richards, as I understand it, you were staying at the Palazzo Hotel." Gordon turned his attention to Robin.

"Room 1955, top floor," she confirmed.

"A security detail will be sent to your room tomorrow to collect your things. Do you have anything that requires special handling?"

"Nothing, really, but there's an electronic device in pieces on the desk. If you could just put it in a box, and make sure you have all the pieces, some of them are quite small, I'd appreciate it."

"How large a box will be needed?"

"One of those Tupperware bins, the quart size, should do it; even a Ziploc bag would work. And make sure you check behind the bathroom door, I may have left my bathrobe there." Robin mentally worked her way around her hotel room, trying to think of anything else she may have misplaced.

"You did mention you were moving back to Gotham, Ms. Richards do you have other belongings that need to be retrieved and stored?" Gordon asked, remembering what she had said earlier.

"Yes, but you need not concern yourself with it. I've already made arrangements for its safekeeping."

"What, if I may ask, is the 'it' to which you are referring?" Gordon asked.

"A forty-foot cargo container," Robin replied, "hate that & thing," she muttered under her breath.

"Oh," Gordon said simply.

"Is there anything else that needs discussing?" Bruce asked, eager to go home.

"That's all for tonight, Mr. Wayne," Gordon shook Bruce's hand, "we'll be in touch. Ms. Richards," he turned to Robin, "thank you again for your cooperation," he shook her hand as well. "Right this way please," Gordon led them back through the hallway past the interrogation rooms and to a fire exit. Commissioner Gordon punched an override code into the panel next to the door and pushed it open. He led Bruce and Robin down five flights of stairs to the underground police parking lot and motorpool. A black sedan with tinted windows was parked near the door.

Commissioner Gordon opened the door for Bruce and Robin, then walked around the vehicle to speak to the driver.

"Would that be the cargo container that you _lived in_?" Bruce whispered to Robin once they were in the back of the sedan. Bruce had realized almost immediately that the workspace dimensions Robin had given Gordon earlier were the interior dimensions of a standard forty-foot cargo container, but had not had the chance to ask Robin about it.

"It works just fine for small European models, though you do get stir crazy after a while. The one good thing is that, barring an accident or the ship sinking, it's the safest place I can be," Robin replied quietly. "Actually, that's where I develop most of my new technologies."

"How long did you spend in that cargo container?" Bruce turned to her as the sedan began to move.

"Seven jobs in the past five years totaling…" Robin did some mental math, "twenty-three weeks."

"I'm assuming that that's where all of your tools currently are?"

"Yes. They were supposed to be delivered to the workspace Mr. Fox set aside for me in the Applied Sciences lab. I had my secretary leave a message with his secretary to coordinate the relocation of the workspace while you were being questioned."

"You have a secretary? Mr. Fox said that you worked alone."

"AI secretary. Her name is JACCY which stands for Just A Computer, Can't You tell?" Robin smiled.

"Nice name. So how did the cargo container jobs work?"

"Vehicle gets delivered to docks. Vehicle gets loaded into cargo container with several other vehicles. Cargo container is loaded onto ship. Ship crosses the applicable body of water. Reverse steps one through three." Robin said.

"And where do you come in?"

"I'm sure you can figure it out." Robin chuckled.

"We're here," the driver's voice crackled over the intercom.

"So we are," Bruce looked up at Wayne Manor through the tinted window. He reached for the latch to open the car door when the door swung open.

"Good evening Master Wayne, or would it be good morning now?" Alfred held the door for Bruce and Robin.

"At my college, there was a raging debate as to whether the evening/morning distinction should be made at midnight, when the sun comes up, or when one goes to bed," Robin said as she climbed out of the sedan. "I always went with midnight; it was less confusing for those times bedtime ended up being three in the afternoon."

"I hope you didn't make a habit of that." Bruce said as Alfred gave him a knowing look.

"I tried to avoid it," Robin replied as the trio entered Wayne Manor. Outside, the sound of crunching gravel faded as the sedan drove away.

"Ms. Richards," Alfred interjected, "I took the liberty of moving your car to the garage. I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all. I hope it didn't give you any trouble; it tends to be a bit _sensitive_ when I'm not in the driver's seat." Robin looked a bit worried.

"It was nothing I couldn't handle." Alfred reassured her.

"I guess it's good night, I mean, good morning, I mean…" Bruce trailed off.

"I know what you mean," Robin laughed, "dormire bene, Mr. Wayne."

"And the same to you," Bruce headed down the long hallway to the master suite.

"Your guest suite is this way, Ms. Richards," Alfred said, directing Robin in the other direction.


	8. Assessing the Damage

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 8: Assessing the Damage**

Alfred led Robin down a long hallway to a series of guest rooms in the northwest wing of Wayne Manor. Opening one of the doors, Alfred flicked a light switch to reveal a large room with a magnificent four-poster bed as its centerpiece. "There you go, bathroom's on the left, and closet's on the right," he pointed at a door partially hidden by a full-length mirror. "You belongings will be arriving from the hotel tomorrow. I hope in the meantime that these will do," Alfred handed Robin a pile of clothing that clearly belonged to Bruce.

"I'm sure I'll manage," Robin laughed as she set the clothing at the foot of the bed. "Thank you, Alfred."

"Good night, Ms. Richards."

"Good night," she replied as Alfred retreated, closing the door behind himself.

Robin eyed the full-length mirror before slipping out of her dress. Gingerly, she began to peel the flesh-colored bodysuit away from her skin, and watched the transformation from perfect, even flesh tones to the pale, scarred, and bruised mess she really was. Looking over her shoulder, Robin winced as she took in the damage to her back. The bruising radiated from the point of impact in angry black and purple circles, getting lighter as they grew, and met her pale flesh with hints of green and yellow. Robin pulled a small digital camera from her purse to document the damage.

Sifting through the pile of clothing at the foot of the bed, Robin found a pair of light blue cotton pajamas and put them on. In business suits and high heels, it didn't matter that Bruce was nearly a foot taller than her, but rolling the sleeves and cuffs of his pajamas made her truly aware of their difference in height. Looking in the mirror, Robin realized that she looked like a small child playing dress-up in the oversized nightshirt and floppy pants. Robin moved the other clothing to the nightstand, grateful that Alfred had thought to include a belt. She would figure out how to piece together a suitable outfit in the morning.

Robin pulled back the fluffy down comforter and climbed into the California King sized bed. She flicked off the light switch conveniently located next to the headboard and settled into a comfortable position on her stomach. Pulling the comforter over herself, Robin was pleased to discover that it was not as heavy on her sore back as she expected. The last thing Robin heard as she drifted off to sleep was a motorcycle speeding off into the distance.


	9. Keeping Up Appearances

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 9: Keeping up Appearances**

Alfred closed the door of the guest room, and headed back down the hallway of the now dark and silent mansion to the master suite, hoping to find Bruce. He should have just gone straight to the study and through the hidden doorway to the southeast foundations, or 'the batcave' as he called it.

Hearing the hum of the new elevator, Bruce finished adjusting his utility belt and turned to see Alfred giving him a look of disapproval.

"Must you go out tonight sir?" he asked, already knowing Bruce's answer.

"Yes, Alfred, especially tonight. _Bruce Wayne _was shot tonight. I'm in the hospital, barely clinging to life. It will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. The people of Gotham _need_ Batman tonight. When not even the Prince of Gotham is safe from an assassin's bullet, the people need to know that there's someone out there watching out for them."

"Very well." Alfred paused, "Master Wayne, how should I explain your nightly activities to Ms. Richards?"

"Don't bother." Bruce pulled his helmet over his head.

"You didn't tell her, did you?"

"No, but I think she already knows, or at least suspects it," Batman said, thinking back to the story she told the task force, his voice becoming a throaty growl.

"Try not to get too beat up tonight, Master Wayne; it will be difficult to hide your injuries at the press conference tomorrow afternoon if all you're wearing is a hospital gown, and perhaps more difficult to explain them."

"I'll keep that in mind, Alfred," Batman said as he climbed onto the Batpod and sped out of the cave.

Alfred watched as Batman disappeared through the wall of water that concealed the entrance of his base and added theatrical makeup to his shopping list.


	10. Does It Come In Black?

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 10: Does it Come in Black?**

Bruce shook his head, sending droplets of water flying in every direction, as he turned off and dismounted the Batpod. He deactivated the electric collar of his suit and pulled off his helmet and neck brace. Bruce tilted his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck, then began removing his armor section by section, stretching each set of newly freed muscles as he went. Bruce finally pulled off his neoprene undersuit and stepped into the small bathroom that had been installed in the batcave for a quick shower.

Letting the warm water wash over his body, Bruce looked down at the water running between his feet and spiraling down the drain. It was clear, a welcome change from the usual blood-red rivulets mixing with the soap suds.

Bruce stepped out of the shower and grabbed a warm, fluffy, black towel. Alfred had disagreed with Bruce's choice of black towels despite Bruce pointing out to him that bloodstains wouldn't show against the dark fabric. In Alfred's view, it just made the stains harder to find and properly launder; and if he absolutely had to choose a dark color, could he have at least chosen forest green or maroon?

With a soft thump, the wet towel landed in the hamper. Bruce reached for a pair of navy pajamas, pausing in front of the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door to survey the damage to his body that he would have to hide for the press conference later that day. The well healed, if extensive, scarring could be explained by his highly publicized reckless lifestyle. The fresh bruises would present more of a problem. A problem which could be dealt with later. What Bruce really needed was sleep, he realized, as he somewhat clumsily pulled on the navy pajamas.

Making his way to the elevator, Bruce looked over to the waterfall-covered entrance to his hidden base. The water was just beginning to sparkle in the morning light. Bruce pressed the call button on the elevator, and with a soft whoosh, the elevator arrived and opened its doors. Bruce shuffled into the elevator and leaned against the wall as the elevator rose. Announcing its arrival at the hidden door in the study with a ping, the elevator opened its doors and Bruce trudged through them. Checking that his way was clear, Bruce pulled the latch that opened the hidden door and slipped into the study. He was tempted to just crash onto the plush sofa and call it a night, but thought better of it and kept going.

Bruce arrived in the master suite and promptly flopped onto his bed, not even bothering to pull back the covers. He was asleep within seconds.

Bruce awoke to the sun making quite an effort to hit his retinas through his closed eyelids. He also noticed that there was a blanket draped over him. Bruce rolled over in an attempt to escape the dreadful sunlight.

"Master Wayne," Alfred's voice came from somewhere near to foot of Bruce's bed. He continued, "I would suggest you make an appearance, however brief, this morning, for the sake of your houseguest."

Bruce pulled a pillow over his head and grumbled something about her probably wanting to be left alone.

Alfred set a tray with a glass of Bruce's green protein formula on the bedside table and retreated from the room, but not before glaring at his employer's blanketed form with unmasked disapproval.

Bruce lifted the pillow off his head just far enough to see his breakfast. Momentarily wishing he had a real superpower that would allow him to close the blasted drapes without having to get out of bed, Bruce reached for the glass and, in one incredibly dexterous move, grabbed it and flipped himself over so he was facing away from the open window. Bruce blinked, finally resigning himself to the fact that his eyes would have to accept the daylight. He drank the protein shake quickly; it really tasted as bad as it looked; then set about making himself look marginally presentable.

Bruce found Robin on the sun porch, a tray with a half-eaten croissant and a glass of orange juice sitting on the table next to what looked like an oversized bottle of flesh-toned nail polish. Robin dipped a brush into the bottle and continued to spot-paint her body armor; SecondSkin may be impervious to bullets, but the latex paint on it wasn't.

"Nice day, isn't it?" Bruce stepped onto the slate patio and looked past Robin to the green hills that sloped away from the mansion.

"It's not bad; a bit too sunny for my liking," Robin replied, closing the brush into the bottle and laying the suit piece on the table to dry. She carefully leaned back in the oversized patio chair, picked up her croissant, and took a bite as she swiveled the chair to face Bruce.

"Nice outfit," Bruce recognized the clothing as some of his own, "I'd heard that menswear was in this season."

"Thank you," Robin swallowed and haphazardly wiped the back of her hand, still holding the croissant, across her mouth. "I hope you don't mind me borrowing some of your clothes; it was these, or a dress with a bullet hole," Robin replied.

"It's not a problem." Bruce was looking over Robin's shoulder at the flesh-colored shirt spread on the table next to the breakfast tray, quite intrigued.

"I have a preliminary report on Mr. Kramer. Hopefully you'll be able to make something of it." Robin reached across the table to a manila folder.

"I thought you'd said you were fine." Bruce said quietly, shifting his gaze from the novel body armor to the bruises, a reminder of the previous night's shooting, which had been revealed when Robin reached across the table, the shirt pulling tight to her skin.

"It's not nearly as bad as it looks," Robin tried to reassure him; "the body armor absorbed most of the force of the bullet and distributed the rest so it would cause less damage. All the bruising is superficial; I have no broken bones, none of the penetration injuries common with Kevlar, I'm fine, really…just a bit sore." She handed the folder to Bruce.

Bruce moved over to the table and sat down, opening the file. "Gothamite…did time in a South Korean prison for smuggling…" he read aloud from the file, "prison records say he died in a gang fight in the prison yard…" Bruce smirked, "and then he reappears in Gotham two years later with a new name, and gets a job as a waiter with the best caterer in town."

"I should have his bank and phone records by this evening. I can run them manually if you'd like the information sooner." Robin took another bite of her croissant.

"This evening will be fine," Bruce closed the folder and set it on the table. "So this is SecondSkin," he picked up the flesh-toned shirt, running the material between his fingers.

"What do you think?" Robin asked.

Bruce smiled, remembering something he once asked Mr. Fox, "Does it come in black?"


	11. Preparations

Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, and I most certainly do not own Wayne Enterprises, so please don't sue me.

**Chapter 11: Preparations**

A black sedan, quite like the one that had taken Bruce and Robin home the night before, stopped in the front drive of Wayne Manor. The driver exited and strode quickly up the front steps to the large door, which opened just as the driver was reaching for the doorbell.

"Ah, you must be the police escort," Alfred greeted the driver. "Master Wayne should be..."

"Right here." Bruce's voice emerged from somewhere behind the door. Has Alfred not been accustomed to Bruce's ability to seemingly appear from nowhere, he would have jumped.

Bruce was carrying a small overnight bag. "Shall we go?"

"I'll be along later," Alfred told Bruce, quietly adding, "do try to avoid smudging your makeup, I don't know if we'll have time for touch-ups."

Settling himself in the back of the black sedan, Bruce found a pile of newspapers on the seat next to him. Picking one up, he saw that the headline read "Bruce Wayne Shot at Birthday Soiree." Leafing through the rest of the pile, he noted the others had similar headlines.

Looking in the rearview mirror, the driver said, "I thought you might want to see what the press already thinks it knows," as he turned the key in the ignition.

"Thank you," Bruce replied, settling back to read the first article.

One uneventful ride later, Bruce was escorted through the rear service entrance of the hospital and into the freight elevator, where Commissioner Gordon was waiting for him.

"Commissioner," Bruce greeted Batman's ally, "Any more information from the prisoner?"

"No," Commissioner Gordon replied, "but thanks to your friend Ms. Richards, his South Korean prison records should be arriving sometime this afternoon. I don't know what good they'll do, though."

"They may give us a clue to his allegiances," Bruce replied, "tell us who's got it in for me."

The commissioner nodded his agreement. "Mr. Wayne," Gordon faltered, "you were missing for seven years. You didn't make a single enemy during that time?"

"What can I say," Bruce grinned, "I'm a likeable guy."

The elevator stopped and the two men exited, following the nurse that met them to Bruce's hospital room.

"Thank you Lieutenant," Gordon said to a man who looked remarkably like Bruce Wayne who was sitting on the hospital bed that filled the better part of the small room, "we'll need you again in a few hours. In the mean time, Collins, don't let anyone see you."

The lieutenant in the hospital gown nodded, picked up his robe, and slid past Bruce and out of the room.

"Where'd you get such a remarkable body double on such short notice?" Bruce asked.

"Collins is a homicide detective in Greensburg," Gordon replied. "I met him at a profiling symposium last year. Kept in touch specifically because he looked like you; with your penchant for trouble, I figured we'd need one eventually."

Bruce chuckled and shook his head at Commissioner Gordon's uncanny foresight.

"Here's your gown," the nurse who met the duo at the elevator pulled the garment out of a bedside drawer and handed it to Bruce, "the bathroom's to the left if you need some privacy."

"Thank you," Bruce replied, heading for the small bathroom. Closing and locking the door, Bruce pulled off his clothing and slipped into the hospital gown, checking to make sure none of the body makeup covering his fresh bruises had rubbed off on the well-worn fabric. Satisfied that he looked the part of a recently shot billionaire, Bruce stowed his clothing in his overnight bag and exited the bathroom.

"Ah, there's our invalid," Gordon turned to Bruce. "How do you feel?"

"It's a bit breezy, actually." Bruce replied, clutching the backside of the gown tightly closed, unused to and uncomfortable with his current level of exposure.

Gordon gave a noncommittal shrug of understanding. "I was hoping more for moaning and groaning, but embarrassed will do for now."

Bruce climbed into the hospital bed and pulled the sheets up nearly to his armpits before reaching for the remote to adjust the bed to his liking. The nurse came back and began to tape a series of tubes and wires to Bruce's chest and arms. Bruce followed the wires to several monitors that appeared to be actively recording his vital signs. The tubes he noted, while leading to filled saline and medication bags, were simply being taped to his skin with the needle jackets still in place. "Thank you," Bruce said to the nurse as she finished attaching the tubes and wires.

Gordon approached the side of the hospital bed and watched Bruce fiddle with one of the many machines that surrounded him. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked.

"I think I'm going to take a nap," Bruce replied. "Wake me up when the cameras get here." Bruce laid back on the bed, closed his eyes, and, to Commissioner Gordon's amazement, was snoring in seconds.

"I guess he really did sleep through meetings," Gordon mused as a sharp rap on the doorframe drew his attention away from Bruce.

"Sir," a young officer in a crisp police uniform stood at the door.

"Come in, Sergeant Matthews," Gordon replied to the press officer, "I'm assuming my statement is ready?"

"Yes, sir," Matthews handed a sheet of paper to Commissioner Gordon. "Sir," he continued, looking at Bruce, "will he be alright, sir?"

Gordon followed Sergeant Matthews's gaze to the sleeping form of the billionaire. "He'll," Gordon paused, not wanting to jinx them, "_barring any further mishaps,_ be just fine, Sergeant. Bruce Wayne is a tough old bat."

"Sir?" Matthews was puzzled by Gordon's choice of words, "Forgive me, but he's younger than you."

"It's just an expression, Matthews." Gordon finished reading the short statement he was to give to the Gotham City press in less than an hour, "Just an expression."


End file.
